


Oh, Lazarus, did you want to wake up?

by whitchry9



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Bad Parenting, Gen, Medical Procedures, Temporary Character Death, Unethical Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 22:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19071910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: When Number Four is shot, Reginald takes the opportunity to test a hypothesis.





	Oh, Lazarus, did you want to wake up?

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: withholding medical care
> 
> Title is from the poem 'AIN’T NO GRAVE CAN HOLD MY BODY DOWN, BUT JESUS CHRIST, I WISH IT COULD' by J.S.

Number Four had been shot. It was his own fault for not paying attention during the mission. He was supposed to be the lookout after all, since he wasn’t yet committed to fully applying his abilities and thus couldn’t offer much else. But it seemed the boy had gotten distracted by something, and had missed one of the bank robbers sneaking around behind him, catching him in the shoulder with a bullet.

 

The other children had been quite concerned after that, with Number Six rushing to Four’s side. Even Number One, who was the most obedient of the children, had hesitated in his role to look over and check that Four was alright.

 

“Finish your mission,” Reginald told them sharply over the communicators.

Number Three rumoured the final few bank robbers as Number Two retrieved his knives.

 

“Guys, it’s fine. Probably,” Number Four said, half joking as the others rushed to his side. “I’m just bleeding a lot, but it’s not like you need blood or anything. I’m sure Mom can patch me up right away.”

Six examined the wound in Four’s shoulder. “Doesn’t seem to be any arterial bleeding. He should be okay to move as long as we keep pressure on it.”

 

Number One scooped Four up and hurried out to the car, the other children rushing after him. The press were going to have a field day with that, but there wasn’t much Reginald could do about that now.

 

He alerted Pogo to have the medical bay ready for their arrival as the children poured into the car.

 

“Number Four, we are going to have a discussion about proper mission procedure after this. Number Two, help put pressure on the wound. I don’t want blood everywhere.”

 

During the relatively short drive back to the academy, Number Four went from making jokes to barely responding, even when Number Two pressed hard against his shoulder, an action he had previously been complaining about.

 

When the car screeched to a halt, the children scrambled out, Number Four barely clinging to consciousness.

 

“Straight to the med bay Number One,” Reginald instructed. “Everyone else, get cleaned up. I want a mission report ready in half an hour.”

 

“But-” Number Three started to protest.

“Half an hour,” he repeated, leaving no room for arguments.

 

As soon as Number One placed Four on the table, Grace began cutting his uniform off.

“Same goes for you,” he told One. “Clean up and be ready to give a report.”

 

Number One swallowed heavily, but didn’t argue.

 

“The bullet appears to have severed the subclavian vein. He’s lost a significant amount of blood. He’ll likely need a transfusion.”

“Stitch him up,” Reginald instructed.

“If the lost volume isn’t replaced it’s possible-”

“Just do it.”

 

Grace nodded, giving him a brief smile, before setting to work. The wires that had been connected to Number Four’s chest led to a machine that was increasingly unhappy, alarming to let them know that Number Four’s heartrate, blood pressure, respiratory rate, and oxygen saturation were all declining.

Grace looked over at it, but returned to her stitching. If Reginald didn’t know better he’d say she looked pained.

 

After she’d finished suturing the wound, she covered it with a bandage, carefully smoothing the edges down. She then moved to insert an iv line to give Number Four fluids.

 

“Don’t,” he instructed.

“Mr Hargreeves, his vitals are dangerously low. His heart will stop if we don’t do something.”

“I am aware.”

She hesitated, vacillating between action and inaction. But a direct order from him would always override her other programming.

“What about oxygen?”

He considered it. If his suspicions were correct, Number Four would not remain dead, but Reginald was not sure about any effects that dying could have. Better to be safe and not risk brain damage from hypoxia.

“That is acceptable.”

 

Grace strides towards the oxygen tank in the corner of the room, turning it on and applying a mask to Four’s face with quick and efficient movements. The machine does not stop screaming despite this.

 

Reginald checked his watch. It had been nearly half an hour since they’d arrived back at the academy.

“Go check on the children. Ensure they are cleaned up and will be ready to give a report. I will be out within the hour. They are not to come here.”

“Of course Mr Hargreeves. Shall I prepare them dinner?”

“If you must.”

With his back turned, he didn’t see the look Grace gave Number Four, splayed out on the table, pale and nearly lifeless.

 

Over the next 18 minutes, Number Four’s vital signs progressively deteriorated. He stopped breathing at 17 minutes, and at 18 minutes, his heart stopped beating.

 

Reginald leaned over and silenced the alarms. He started a countdown.

 

After three minutes, he was starting to wonder if he’d misjudged the boy. It wouldn’t be a huge loss. The others would undoubtedly be affected by this, to varying degrees. He would never see if the boy had more power than he realized. But if this experiment failed, and even if he got Number Four back, didn’t lose him to hypovolemia or brain injury. Well. There was always next time.

 

As it reached five minutes, Reginald stood up, disappointed, but not surprised with Number Four’s lack of achievement. He prepared the defibrillator, resigning himself to give it a go, before eventually having to tell the other children that nothing could be done.

 

The alarm went off, signifying the end of the five minute window Reginald allowed. The machine began charging, and Reginald looked down at the still body of Number Four, upper chest bare except for the bandage, and sighed.

 

Before he could touch the paddles to Number Four’s chest, the boy bolted upright, gasping for breath, before slumping back down on the table, out cold.

 

Reginald put the paddles back down, glanced at the monitor, which showed Four’s vitals returning to a normal range.

Fascinating.

 

Unlocking one of the cupboards, he checked the bottles of medication to find the right one, and then injected Number Four with a liberal dose of a short acting sedative. If he had any memories of this, he wouldn’t anymore.

 

Pulling his journal from his pocket, Reginald began a new entry.


End file.
